


Twelve Hours

by maven



Series: The Glass Crucible [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maven/pseuds/maven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When someone has a beef with the Las Vegas Crime Scene Investigators they decide to get some revenge, to show them what it's like on the other side.  But it's not Nick that gets taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twelve Hours

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a reworking of the Season 5 episode Grave Danger.

**Hour One**

"Hi, CSI guy. You're wondering why you're here? Because you followed the evidence. Because that's what CSIs do. So breathe quick, breathe slow, put your gun in your mouth and pull the trigger. Any way you like, you're going to die here. Okay?"

Now there's a cheerful message.

Message to self. Self, kick that deputy in the balls when you get out of this box.

My brain refuses to call it a coffin.

I wiggle around a bit, testing the dimensions. It's a bit on the big side. My five and three quarter feet easily fits.

Good thing they didn't grab Grissom or Warrick; they'd have been really cramped.

I laugh. I'm sealed in a glass coffin with my gun, a walkman and three survival glowsticks but at least I'm comfortable.

Message to self. Self, get your priorities straight.

My vest and belt are missing which means no tools or pens let alone my collection of electronic communication devices.

My watch is gone so I can't track time.

I check my pockets. A set of gloves. An almost empty spool of evidence tape. Some lint. My wallet with everything that proves that I exist is still in my hip pocket. Keys are gone, though.

Message to self. Self, you're fucked.

**  
Hour Two**

The walkman makes a clicking noise as the tape hits the end of the spool and then play button pops.

In the old days a ship would have a big half-hour sandglass. Every time the sand ran out they'd flip it and strike the ship's bell. 1230 hours would be one bell, 1300 hours would be two bells and so on. Every four hours they'd start again at one bell. They'd start fresh each noon with the navigational sighting of the sun and flip the sandglass.

And they said Moby Dick had no practical use in the modern world.

I pop open the door of the walkman and hold the cassette up to glowstick. 45 minutes to a side. I slide the cassette back in and press play. I'd been awake 45 minutes since pressing play, an act that I arbitrarily decide is henceforth 'noon'.

"One bell and all is well."

****

**  
Hour Three**

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."

My English teachers grew to hate Dickens. Just drag out that mother of a run-on sentence and what could they say about it? Mind you, mine never had the flow of language or emotion. They were remarkable only in their length. But every time I'd get a red mark I'd recite that opening sentence and most of the time I'd get my half grade increase.

You know it's dire when you look back fondly at high school.

The glow stick is getting dim and I've changed the tape twice. I'm not yet concerned about the batteries and hopefully Grissom and Catherine can find me before they run out.

There's an explosion of light.

I scream like a girl, raise my hands in defence against something and wait for my heart to calm. The thing is focused into my face and I squirm until I'm out of the direct beam. The walls act as mirrors and I can see myself, panic reflected, in the sides.

The light goes out and almost immediately clicks on.

What the fuck? Is he afraid I'm going to go to sleep?

I experiment. Movement doesn't seem to trigger it nor does speaking. The time it remains off varies but never more than five seconds.

It takes a while for it to occur to me that while the light is on the fan is off.

"You said I could breathe! Fast or slow but you said I could breathe!"

I turn as best I can onto my side, pull the neck of my t-shirt up over my head like a turtle and hide.

**  
Hour Four**

The light goes out and for a few blessed seconds there's a chill of fresh air across my face - all too short as the light comes back on.

I want to punch but there's not enough room for a good punch and I just slide back every time I kick; my weight and the friction of my clothing not enough to counteract the force of my blow.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Or so says Newton.

Which leads to the question of what kind of action caused the reaction of sticking me in a box and burying it in the ground? I mean, how awful?

Unless we're dealing with just some sick fuck in which case all bets are off.

Okay, if the guy want's to torture me he wouldn't turn the light on every time it turned off, he'd do it random. If the guy were truly a sick fuck he'd have left me the control and no glowsticks; make me choose between light and air. Third option would be share the fun; give the control to some third party and not tell them that the light killed the fan.

Message to self. Self, does it worry you that you can get into the mind of sick fucks so easily?

Okay, my guys have someway of turning on the light and I'd like to think they don't know it kills the air supply. So, how do they know when the light goes off?

They can see it.

They can see me.

All right then.

I wiggle around until I find the spool of tape. Not enough to use but hopefully enough for what I need. 10 centimetres. I can work with that. After several tries I manage to stick one end to the middle vent. Then I wait.

The light goes off.

The tape begins to flutter.

The light goes on.

The tape falls.

Okay. You saw that, right? Now, they'll do it once more to confirm the data.

The light goes off.

The tape begins to flutter.

The light goes on.

The tape falls.

Come on, you guys are smart. You guys are observant. Please don't tell me you left Hodge watching.

The light goes off.

The tape begins to flutter.

The light goes on.

The tape falls.

Message to self. Self, perhaps we've been overestimating the intelligence of our co-workers.

The light goes off.

The tape begins to flutter.

The light does not turn on.

The tape flutters, tickling my cheek. I touch around until I find a chemical glow stick and snap and shake it until a dim green fills the coffin.

I hold it beside the tape so that they, and I, can see it moving in the meagre breeze.

Step two.

"Turn on the light if you can understand me," I say clearly and slowly.

It takes them the rest of the tape side to turn on the light.

**  
Hour Five**

Message to self. Self, there's another investigator working this case.

"Someone grabbed me from behind and gassed me with chloroform or something. Smelled sweet but unpleasant, can't explain how though. Reminded me of that meth lab we processed last month. It was on what felt like a gauze pad. Rode around in the back of something like a Delani for a while and then got gassed again. You could access the back from the front. Guy was big. Solid like Nicky but bigger.

I give the approximate dimensions of the box and the supplies including the serial number on the tape recorder. I recite the message; maybe they can make something from it.

**  
Hour Six**

I know it's not getting warmer. I wish I could take off my boots but they're double knotted and impossible to take off without loosening the laces.

_"Wake! For the Sun behind yon Eastern height_   
_Has chased the Session of the Stars from Night;_   
_And to the field of Heav`n ascending, strikes_   
_The Sultan`s Turret with a Shaft of Light."_

The light clicks on.

I laugh. "Was that a joke? Turn the light back on if that was a joke."

After the usual minute or so the light turns off and then back on.

"Grissom, you have one weird sense of humour," I say. "Don't bother answering that."

I pillow my head in my arms and rest.

**  
Hour Seven**

"I've got a trash run at Flamingo and Koval."

I'm standing outside the break room, eight hours ago, with Catherine. She's holding an assignment slip. Body parts, source undetermined, in a parking lot. It's May and we both know it's a college prank by students who are suddenly free from courses for four months and a beer keg is too high school. We both know it's going to be three hours of walking and shooting film and scraping up the remains of whatever it was they managed to scrounge from the clinical lab sciences program at the University.

"Warrick's got an assault at Stripperama and Nick has a smash and grab at the Flamingo."

"And I made the mistake of coming in an hour early?"

"And you made the mistake of coming in an hour early. I'd do it myself but I have a mountain of paperwork that needs to be done by Friday."

It's Thursday, because the really shitty things only seem to happen on Thursday, so that means she's about to play the Mom card. How she'll not be there for her kid on the weekend because I was mean and made her stay late and the paperwork didn't get done so she had to come in on Saturday and Lindsey'll grow up to be a meth addict and die in a ditch. And. It. Will. Be. All. My. Fault.

Fuck.

"Yeah, no problem," I say. She looks doubtful, probably because I folded so easily, and I simply snap the paper from her hand. "Say hey to Lindsey for me," I say. I always say this. Always. Lindsey never sends a "hey" back which I attribute to many things.

Fuck again and I crumble the slip a bit.

"Thanks, Sara. I owe you. You're a life saver."

I heft my kit in my right hand and camera in the left. "That's me," I agree, turning toward the door. The corridor stretches for miles, the light so dim that it washes all the colour out. "I'll head out then," I say. But I don't move.

"Scared?" she whispers from behind me.

"Cautious," I correct.

"I can do it. I can go in your place. This isn't your doom."

"No! I can do this," I heft my sword in my right hand and the spool of gold thread in the left. I turn behind me and see the thread already stretching behind me into the darkness. "What do I do?"

A trio of voices, Catherine, Grissom and Ecklie, whisper from the darkness. "Follow it."

I heft my sword again and look down at my left hand that is curled around the thread. It stretches into the darkness before me.

"What is this?" I ask, tugging on the thread.

"Your fears," says Ecklie.

"Your skills," says Grissom.

"Your dreams," says Catherine.

"Where does it lead?" I ask, running my thumb along it, testing its strength.

"To the monster," says Ecklie.

"To the truth," says Grissom.

"To your destiny," says Catherine.

I nod and step forward, my thumb almost cut from the thread as I move along. The labyrinth turns and twists. My thumb hits a knot in the thread and I pause, looking into the doorway. There's the smell of the sea and the noise of San Fransico and suddenly the stink of copper.

"Move on," commands Warrick, blocking the door. "This is your past. There's nothing here now."

I nod and step forward until my thumb hits another knot. I look into my favourite chemical lab. There's the smell of solvent and the noise of bubbling fluids and suddenly the overwhelming feeling of comfort and I decide that monsters and destiny and truth can wait.

"Move on," commands Nick. "This is the present. It's always changing but it will always be here. Move on, Sara. You can't hide here."

I nod and step forward into thicker darkness, the only senses working are the tactile sensation of the thread running through my hand and the sound of my boots echoing in the stone corridor. A knot and I stop as the room beside me begins to glow, backlighting a figure. He steps out of the light so I can see him.

"Move on," Greg-Grissom says softly.

"You're my future?"

He shakes his head. "No, not anymore. Your future's too bright to see clearly. Too dark to see fully. But you gotta keep moving toward it. You can't stop Sara."

I can see another person standing behind him. Only the rough silhouette.

"Go on. They'll be there when you find your monster-truth-destiny."

I creep forward because I know I'm near the end of the thread. The darkness gives way to red fog and echoing noise. I can hear something wild panting, something monstrous scenting the air. I can see the outline of it ahead and I let go of my thread and grip the sword tightly and spin the monster around and raise the sword to my/its throat and…

The light wakes me and I gasp, jerking upright and smacking my forehead against the Plexiglas. I start to reach for my gun when I realize that it's already in my hand.

"Thanks guys," I say. "Just a nightmare. But you can come get me anytime."

I pop the clip and slide out a bullet. I toss it toward the foot of my coffin and slide out another. When clip is empty I slide it back into the gun and set it down beside me.

_"Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book," thought Alice, "without pictures or conversations?"_

**  
Hour Eight**

The trouble with being in a box with limited distractions, beyond the obvious that is, is that there's nothing to stop me from thinking. Nothing to read, nothing to drink, nothing to do.

The dream is bugging me and I spend some time cursing Jung and the elective college courses in psych I took.

The fact that I'm stuck like some exhibit in an aquarium is bugging me.

The fact that I can't be sure that anyone is going to mourn me beyond the funeral is bugging me.

When exactly did my life get put on hold? When did I become trapped between the past and the future? When did I become used to not having goals or dreams beyond work?

That's the trouble with being in a box with limited distractions is that there's nothing to stop me from thinking. And, apparently, I have about twenty years of thinking to catch up on.

**  
Hour Nine**

I hold the glowstick to the side of the plexiglass but it mirrors. I try a few different angles and distances until I can see a bit beyond my prison walls.

"You'd like it in here, Grissom. Like being on the inside of an ant farm. The soil, by the way, looks like dirt, not sand or that clay shit we have to dig through in the desert.

"Anyway, there's some little tunnels and I can see earthworms and beetles and other creepy crawlies. There are some seriously pissed off ants here. As I know you love the little guys, Grissom, I'll tell you that they're kinda coppery-brown once you factor in my green light source with darker abdomens. Ants with a sense of style. The biggest ones seem to be about half a centimetre or so. There're little ones, too. Hey, Grissom? Do ants have take your kid to work day? Don't answer."

**  
Hour Ten**

I wonder who's working the case. My case. Me.

A shiver of fear that I know should be irrational sweeps through me.

Greg would be looking but he's just a trainee and about six years away from being a great investigator. My relationship with Nicky and Warrick dropped to zero once we were on separate shifts. Grissom is Grissom and Catherine is Catherine and for the last year I've been tossing emotional and vitriol bombs at them with abandon.

So, to basically summarize my pathetic situation: one CSI wannabe, two who could barely be considered friends and two whose life would just be so much less complicated without me in it.

"Guys? Grissom? You are looking for me, right?"

The light flashes on immediately and I cover my eyes with my arm and I don't even kid myself that it's to hide from the glare as I sob.

**  
Hour Eleven**

The tape is freshly flipped, the B-side to the message so I won't be screwing up the evidence.

"Don't turn on the light, okay?" I ask the air. "And could I have a little privacy? Just one of the night shift crew. I'll give the thumbs up when you can bring the peanut gallery back in."

I wait a few moments to let them clear the strangers. I press play and record and a small red LED lights up.

"Hey, guys. It's me, Sara. If you don't find this yourself I hope you give the delivery guy a good tip."

Message to self. Self, avoid humour. This is going to be hard on them.

"I don't really have much to say. Woke up in this glass coffin with no sign of any dwarves let alone Prince Charming."

I put my thumb over the condenser mike and take a deep breath.

Message to self. Self, see previous message re: humour.

"Sorry. Anyway, I figure I've been missing about ten or twelve hours and hell, if you guys can't find me in that amount of time I must be hid really well. So, no hard feelings, okay?

"I don't really have anyone to say good bye to other than you guys. Grissom, if you could let my mother know. I'm afraid I didn't come to any epiphanies in here about all that. I wish I had but I guess if I can't in over twenty years a few hours isn't going to do it.

"Greg, you're going to turn into a great investigator. I haven't taught you everything I know yet and I'm sorry. But Nicky and Warrick, they have a different style so maybe this is a good thing. So you don't turn into a clone of me.

"Nick, Warrick. Look after my trainee, okay? Don't let this discourage him or you. You did your best to solve this and I know you didn't give up.

"I never said thank you or sorry or anything to you, Grissom, so thanks for the chance. Chances, really. I'm sorry for all the crap I've dumped on you and thanks for going up to bat for me with the brass.

"Catherine," I swallow and cover the mike again. Damned if I'm going to sound more maudlin than I already do. "Listen. No hard feelings about this, okay? I took the slip. You didn't put me here; some sick fuck did. Just, look after Lindsay, okay? Just…" my voice goes and I put my arm back up over my eyes.

"Can you give her a message? Tell her that she's smart and beautiful like her mom and clever and ambitious like her dad and that there's nothing that she can't do. Kids need to hear that, you know?

"I love you guys. My only regret was not telling you when I had a chance."

I press stop and then play. I take as deep a breath as I can. I make a thumbs up.

"Okay, watcher. Send in the lip reading clowns."

**  
Hour Twelve**

The fan stopped one tape flip ago and I'm on my last glowstick.

Message to self. Self, don't buy this brand for my emergency kit.

I haven't told them about the fan. I pulled the tape off, making it look like an accident so they wouldn't be tipped off. No sense in making them crazy.

I wonder if I can get any of the bullets back. They're somewhere by my feet but I can't seem to find any when I kick around.

Message to self. Self, brilliant idea that, emptying the clip.

Message to self. Self, but what about the chamber?

I pull back the slide enough to see a gleam of brass in the chamber. One shot. Literally.

Message to self. Self, gun safety review would be warranted if not about to become moot.

I tuck the glowstick into the small of my back. They don't need to watch this. There's a microsecond of light as they try to turn on the spot light. Must have a capacitor.

Message to self. Self, you've decided to sign this case off so don't go recreating the electronics.

Breathing's hard. Faintly I can hear someone calling my name. I ignore it.

This isn't about giving up. This is about being the one in control and I'd rather be known as a suicide than a murder victim.

The shouting is getting louder and there's a commotion above me. Sounds like digging.

Message to self. Self, let's wait a second.

The digging gets louder and suddenly there's light. I bring my arm up again to protect my eyes.

"Sara?"

There's a prying sound and a clatter of dirt falling and a rush of air.

"Nobody move!"

I sneak a peek. Catherine's crouched at the foot of my grave while Greg and Nick stand on the sides of the hole, shovels in hand. Warrick's standing beside Nick, holding up the lid of Plexiglas up about six inches. They're all looking at something behind me so I crane up and see Grissom.

"Hodge," he explains as he snaps his cell phone shut. "Everyone out but Sara."

He's got that tone of voice usually reserved for presidents ordering people to bomb shelters so I'm not surprised when they back up and away. Warrick sticks his cell phone into the crack, holding it open. Catherine's the last, holding my eyes until the last moment.

I wait and after a few moments Greg and Nick are back, placing a couple of old railroad tie across the box. They nod at me, faces working as if they wanted to say something but couldn't. Anytime I move they freeze and motion me to do likewise. I grit my teeth and start counting, planning on my verbal explosion if I make it to a hundred.

Catherine returns, easily perching on the ties. I can see flickering shadows as people run around in front of the spotlights.

"It's not over yet, is it?" I ask. I stop counting.

Catherine shakes her head. People I don't recognize are carefully removing the last of the dirt before sliding the lid out. "Can you stay here a bit longer? Trace on a prototype that we found came back as Semtex. So we're pretty sure there's a bomb. "

"Of course there's a bomb. There's always a bomb," I mutter. I carefully set the gun down, switching the safety on as I do so. "You need to get out of here. I'm not worth…"

"Sara, if you knew the crap I -hell, the crap we all- went through to get you back, you'd know my standing on a bomb is the least of it. Now, trust me?"

"Of course. What's the plan?" I ask. Warrick appears, holding a bundle of webbing that he hands to Catherine.

"We're positive Gordon used pressure plates in the past," she says. "We also found evidence of timers." She shakes out what looks like a climbing harness. Bending over she slips it over my right arm, helping me roll so that she can get it around my left.

"How much time?" I ask. My muscles, either through the trauma or disuse, are wet noodles.

"Who knows?" She says almost cheerfully as she clicks the harness buckles at my chest and gives it a tug. "He left a twelve hour deadline so not much. The plan is to dump a bucket load of dirt into here while yanking you out with a rope."

"Whose dumb-ass plan was that?" I ask as Catherine adjusts the straps around my thighs.

"Mine," Grissom says, handing a rope to Catherine before stepping back, following it into the darkness.

"Actually," Catherine says, "his idea was to tie a rope around your waist. The climbing harness is my modification. Figured snapping your back was counterproductive. Now, hold onto this."

I take the bright yellow climbing rope in both hands as Catherine snaps a calliper into the harness's ring. I can hear a monstrous roar, smell the stink of diesel and Catherine glances over her shoulder.

"They're ready," I say. I'm shivering with cold and reaction.

"They are," she confirms. "Are you?"

"I really want out of here," I say.

"Then close your eyes and hold on tight," she says, wrapping my hands around the rope.

I nod, close my eyes and feel the press of lips against my forehead. I close my eyes tighter and listen to her scramble out of the hole. There's a scrape as the railway ties are removed.

The rope goes taunt. There's a sprinkling of earth on my face. I hear Grissom counting slowly and on three I'm simultaneously buried in an avalanche of dirt while I fly through the air. There's a blast of sound and heat at my back, pushing me, lifting me and the world goes dark as I return to the earth.

**  
Epilogue**

The chair is uncomfortable, as if anything could be comfortable in this place.

I wait as patiently as I can, burrowing my fists into my jacket pocket, as the guard escorts her in. She looks older than I expected. Harder. Suspicious. Antagonistic.

Yeah, well, I expect I'm not projecting a Mary Sunshine expression myself.

She picks up the telephone handset and waits. Slowly I reach out and take my own.

"Are you…?"

I nod curtly. "Yeah. I guess I am."

There's a long pause as she shifts in her chair. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry? "

"No. You were just the trigger, the catalyst. Everything that happened after that wasn't your fault."

She stares at me for a brief moment before slamming the phone down, arms crossing angrily. I close my eyes, gather my strength and point to her phone. Slowly she picks it up.

"In a couple of years when you get out of here…" I hesitate and she nods either understanding or for me to continue. "…Don't look me up. What happened after wasn't your fault, but I can never forgive you for what you did do."

"That's it?" she asks, voice harsh.

"Yeah. I guess it is."

She stands abruptly, dropping the phone onto the ledge and a guard springs forward. "We're done here," I hear over the open phone. The guard spares me a curious look as he hangs up her phone.

"Yeah, Mom, I guess we are."

I hang up the phone carefully and stand. I have another plane to catch, another visit, another prison, this time with someone I can forgive.

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> The address that is given as the bait/trap is Koval and Flamingo. After googling it (to make sure it was a legitimate address so I could mock the show if it wasn't) I found this out "On September 7, 1996, legendary rapper Tupac Shakur was brutally gunned down on Flamingo Road near the intersection of Koval while standing up through the sunroof of his BMW 750 sedan. He died six days later at University Medical Center. The case was never solved."


End file.
